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i^2.o iTiCphistopheles Puffeth 
the Sun Out 



LUCILE VERNON 




Class _:;&S3Sj13 

Book Er-7 /Vl 4i 

Copyright M___i3_2c0 

CQEffilGHT DEPOSIT. 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE 
SUN OUT 



MEPHISTOPHELES 
PUFFETH THE 

SUN OUT 

AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 

LUCILE VERNON 




BOSTON 

THE STRATFORD CO., Publishers 

1920 



^K 






Copyright 1920 

The STRATFORD CO., Publishers 

Boston, Mass. 



MAK 20 1920 



The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 



©CI.A566153 



DEDICATED TO 

THAT LITTLE GROUP OP FRIENDS KNOWN BY A 
NAME TOO LIGHT FOR REPETITION HERE, AND BOUND 
BY A PURPOSE TOO SERIOUS FOR EXPOSITION HERE, 
KETH LON( 

E. L. A. 
L. L. P. 
H. W. M. 

D. H. H. 
M. T. 

E. Mc. 
H. V. T. 



Index to Contents 

Mephistopheles Puffeth the Sun Out . . 1 

Joan's Lament Over Rheims ... 3 

Is Love Everything? 5 

In a Calcutta House 7 

Triad 10 

Cloudlets 11 

Boat Song 12 

In the Heart of May 13 

In Memoriam 15 

To M 17 

Sonnet 19 

To E. Mc . . 20 

The Burden 21 

Longing 24 

Watching 25 

Poppy Petals ...... 27 

You're Very Too Much Like the One That 

I Loved 28 



INDEX TO CONTENTS 

Vie de TAme 30 

Misunderstood 33 

Dead 35 

Gone West 36 

Dead Love 38 

The Shrine 41 

Love-Flowers 43 

''It Is To Laugh" 44 

The Last Desire 46 



Mephistopheles Puffeth the Sun Out 

""YT^^UR doting, love-sick fool, with ease 

I Merely his lady-love to please 
Sun, moon, and stars in sport would puff 

away/' * 
That's truth, oh, Mephistopheles, 
Thou speakest, and the very crux of it 
Lies in the words ''would puff"; ah, yes, 

*' would puff"' — 
And cannot. Come, join hands with me, thou 

merry Faustus devil, 
Let us stand and watch them puff, and laugh 
At blown cheeks, puffing-reddened, — all in 

vain. 
Yon goose has puffed at Venus 'till his eyes 
Are bloodshot; Venus twinkles on. 
Fool over yonder blows his lungs out, — 
Seeks to blow out Mars. The idiot 
Standing on that mountain sucks the moon in, 
And all he gets in 's mouth is moonlight. 
''Doting, love-sick fools" in very truth, oh, 

devil. 
And their ladies — you say you cannot jest with 

them ; P ^ -. 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

I dare — are greater fools than they are, 

For they see the comic efforts to puff out the 

sun, 
And laugh not. Aye, they believe, in many 

instances, 
It will go out, being ordered to go out and 

puffed at 
With breath from out the lips of lovers. 
Ha! This is rare sport, Mephistopheles. 
In three short lines thou taughtest me 
To see much new; a jest; 'tis worth reward. 
But if thou canst do that much then thou 

canst 
Do all else that they cannot; puff the sun. 
Go, do for my sake. I'll not laugh. I know 
Thou canst, — thou, only; go I pray. 

He's gone. He'll puff it out 

But not for me. No man doth such 

For love of her he loves, but for the love 

Of him who loves her. For himself, in short! 

And thou, too, devil, dost it thus. 

'Tis done by thee ! — Because, and just because 

All that thou dost is done for self, thyself, 

alone. 
And thus 'tis done. Thus only. 

*First three lines from "Faust." 

[2] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Joan's Lament Over Rheims 

OMY cathedral, shattered and wasted, 
Desolate, plundered, grey in the moon- 
light, 
Skeleton, standing ruined and deserted, 
Rose-window broken, lying in fragments 
On the rude cobbles, — fragments once lovely 
Jewels of the daylight, filtering sunlight, — 
Rheims is laid waste by the invaders. 

Thou wert my pride, the scene of my triumph. 
Place where I journeyed, leading the Dau- 
phin, — 
Promise of France in my day of anguish. 
Prince of the nation, — thither I brought him. 
Crowned him at Rheims, — the altar of glory, — 
Now it is shattered, turned to a coffin. 
Rheims is laid waste by the invaders. 

Great leaden tear-drops hang on the arches, 
Melted by blasting fire of thy f oemen ; 
Ruin-makers swarmed, grey rats 'mid thy pil- 
lars; 

[3] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

Stabbed thy Madonnas; stole thy white silver; 
Tore thy rich draperies ; scattered thy statues ; 
Burned out thy candles; trampled thy velvet; 
In the fair place I won with my bowmen. 
Rheims is laid waste by the invaders. 

Rheims! Thus I mourn thee, weep for thy 

sorrows, 
Mingle my tears with thine that are leaden ; 
Rheims! Thus the Maid of Orleans grieves 

above thee, 
Sobs where she prayed, laments where she 

triumphed. 
Then turns her face away to the northward 
Where the great fires of battle-strife redden, — 
Rheims is laid waste by the invaders. 



[4] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Is Love Everything? 

"Is love everything and duty and the memory 
of the past nothing?" — Eliot. 

SHE'S calling you. I hear her. You must 
go. 
Just touch my hand in parting, — say good-bye, 
Be quick ! Be off ! Say that you loved her so 
Her first call thrilled you and you could not 

fly. 

Don't kiss me. We are only friends. You're 

hers 
Where kisses are concerned, instead of mine, 
Mine but to frolic with, as Kitty purrs 
And tosses high in air her ball of twine. 

As innocent as that the game we've played. 
No love was there, — oh, perhaps a sigh or two, 
A hasty, sudden flush that never stayed, — 
But now it's over, — and she's calling you. 



[5] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

We can't regret; don't sigh; go answer her. 
Forget me 'till we're old and life is through, 
And then, and onlj^ then, look through the blur 
Of years, and say we loved and never knew. 

It must be that way. Love's not everything; 
We did not know 'till now, and now it's 

through. 
Ah, well, a kiss, then, but it must not cling. 
Listen to Duty. Go. She 's calling you. 



[6] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



In A Calcutta House 

YOU say I am a Sahib? Perhaps; no mat- 
ter what I am, 
Since I belong most anywhere from Lisbon to 

Siam, 
What matter if my skin is browned by birth 

or only tanned, 
If my mother was a nautch-girl or a Lady of 

the Land? 
Ah, Sahib, when you've pulled as long at this 

black pipe as I 
You'll understand just what your birth 

amounts to when you die ; 
You'll know that nothing matters while the 

poppy petals draw; 
Life's never good to live while it can flick 

you on the raw. 

I've wanted things as much as you, — worse, 

perhaps, — I've seen the best: 
Great, dark, male rubies from the East, and 

women from the West; 

[7] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

Eich ivory from Portugese. West Africa's hot 
coast ; 

An emerald from a tomb where lies a dried-up 
Rajah's ghost; 

Mahogany, and teakwood, and carved, sandal- 
scented things; 

Wee gods of jade, and dancers, and a set of 
magic rings. 

And strange fire-opals; one black pearl, so 
weird I was afraid; 

I wanted these as none beside has wanted gold 
or maid. 

Now, Sahib, nothing matters, save the Black 

Smoke and my mat; 
My pipe is more to me than all the thrones 

where monarchs sat. 
And even it is nothing; and the hot sun beats 

outside. 
And yonder is the corner where the man from 

Tunis died. 
And the Chink who gives me Smoke is dying, 

too, but what to me 
If the whole of India's people die, from Simla 

to the sea? 
Why should death matter. Sahib ? It has come 

to men before. 

[8] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Or time? A day,— what value? There are 
thousands, — millions more. 

My pipe is failing. Never mind. I'll light it, 

by and by, 
Or, perhaps, I'll never need to, for I know I'm 

going to die: 
No, there's really nothing. Sahib, that I feel I 

want to say; 
I haven't any money. Jewels? I sold them, 

day by day, 
For poppy smoke. My conscience? Sahib, 

very, very sear. 
I've robbed, and burned, and murdered, — that 

is neither there nor here. 
I die,— now— very— happy— No ! Oh, God, man, 

what a lie ! 
I'm English, — white, — God, — GOD ! — MY 

SOUL ! — Oh, mother, — help ! — I die ! 



[9] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 



Triad 

A BUTTERFLY'S reflection where he 
comes to flit and suck, 
A dancer in the light; a banjo in the night; 
These three be Sweet Sensation. 

A butterfly's wing floating in the scummy 

river-muck, 
A nun that prays, nor sings ; and broken banjo 

strings ; 
These three be Desolation. 



[10] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Cloudlets 

HOW fast those little clouds go scurrying 
by, 

Erupting blotches on the opal sky, 
Behind the sunset, just before the moon. 

And with the little star that comes too soon. 

They come from nowhere, bursting into view 
In sombei* color, steely, blackish blue. 
They may be slight in meaning as in form; 
They may portend the coming of a storm. 

Wee, tiny wisp-things sailing on the wind. 
No source, no goal but what they chance to 

find; 
They fly and fly until the moon grows white 
And scares them into hiding from the night. 



[11] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 



Boat Song 

A SAPPHIRE boat with golden oars 
That drip bright, opal beads; 
Slim, emerald grasses near the bank, 

And down-tipped, jetty seeds; 
Flat, crystal water far before, 

A diamond trail behind, 
And on the silent willow trees 
Splinters of jade, new-mined. 

Young laughter like wee, silver bells, 

From sparkling, ruby lips. 
And, lingering on the golden oars, 

Pink, pearl-nailed finger-tips; 
A face — a living cameo 

Above an ivory throat. 
Could one but drain his draught of death 

Within the sapphire boat! 



[12] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



In the Heart of May 

IT dawned the fairest, loveliest day, 
All pearl in the golden heart of May, 
And mother-o '-pearl curved overhead 
For sky ; little stars not yet to bed 
Till dawn's long fingers, pink and white, 
Reached out and put them all to flight. 
Oh, the loveliest day 
In the heart of May, — 
And they buried her that morning. 

The clearest blue and golden noon, 
A sharp, little silver crescent moon 
High up like a crown on Day's bright head. 
Soft joy in the words the May wind said. 
And tender grass for calves to nip. 
Fresh honey for the bees to sip. 

Oh, the loveliest day 

In the heart of May, — 
And they buried her that morning. 



[13] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

The duskiest evening, greyish and green, 
And all misted o'er with smoky sheen; 
The fragrance of blossoms in the air. 
And mockingbirds singing everywhere; 
Jet crickets chirping on the lawn, 
And stars again when sun had gone. 

Oh, the loveliest day 

In the heart of May, — 
And they buried her that morning. 



[14] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



In Memoriam 

(Of Anne Elizabeth Spicer) 
Who died in preparation for overseas service 



I SEEM to miss you, yet I do not grieve 
Because I know you did not fear to leave. 
You thought of death as an adventure strange 
And interesting; nor beyond the range 
Of everyone to see, and have, and know; 
"Why should I grieve — you dreading not to go? 
And then I know, by this strange, sudden 

chance 
Your soul's "Somewhere in France." 

You left me here behind, yet left me that 
Death cannot take — your image where you sat. 
And memory of your well-known voice and face. 
Till your bare room is left a hallowed place; 
And yet, your spirit's not so close as those 
Of others o'er whose graves the spring wind 

blows. 
It is not here, nor 'round your father's manse; 
It lives "Somewhere in France." 

[15] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

Your shoulders bowed already for your share, 
Your eyes were on the trenches over there, 
You only waited to begin your fight 
A few weeks longer, eyes turned toward the 

light 
Of gun-glare where your noble kinsmen stood; 
Your spirit could not wait; it left your blood 
And body here. It leads the great advance 
Of Victory ''Somewhere in France.'* 



[16] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



ToM. 



HAD we been men together, — we — 
We might have pitched our tent 
Somewhere tonight 'neath the Northern Light 
On the trail of gold dust bent. 

"We might have slept the tropic night 

Beneath the Southern Cross; 
In the starlight pale heard the conches wail 

And smelled the burning joss. 

We might be smoking by the rail 

Of a long-forgotten tramp 
Worth half its cost, while the black waves 
tossed 

Below the starboard lamp. 

We might be leaning o'er the wheel 

In a Monte Carlo lair 
To watch the rake that no gold can slake 

Sweep the green baize table bare. 

[17] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OFT 

We might be sitting round the fire 

Beyond the jackal's cry, 
With an empty cup, water-hole drunk up. 

Waiting quietly to die. 

We might be out in Flanders fields; 

And that were best of all, 
'Mid the fire and shot and the shrapnel hot. 

To hear an old friend's call. 

And then you might be wounded sore, 

And I might bring you through 
The showering lead, — ^but 'tis useless said, 

For we're not men, — ^we two. 



[18] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Sonnet 

(To M. T.) 

Thine eyes are sonnets unto life, Beloved; 
Thy lips are flowers that open but to kiss ; 
Thy cheek's soft curve is rich, incarnate bliss; 
Thy hands are sea-shells, pink, pearl-decked, 

ungloved ; 
Thy voice is low, sweet, throbbing from a viol ; 
Thy hair is midnight, quiv'ring with the voice 
Of nightingales ; thy throat were Venus ' choice 
With which the cold Adonis to beguile; 
Thy name is ancient, chanting Israel, 
Its cadence mighty Moses loved full well; 
Thy smile is a young mother's evening croon; 
Thy heart is glowing, deathless, ruby fire ; 
Beloved, thy soul than all these things is 

higher, 
It is the pale-gold gleaming, distant moon. 



[19] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 



To E. Mc. 

THE feel of your brow in the palm of my 
hand, 
my dear, 
And the curl of your hair, fine like silk, gold 
like sand, — 
Soft and clear; 
The warm, pliant flexing of flesh in my arm's 

Loose embrace; 
The upturning chin, and the half-dreamy smile 
On your face. 

This is you as I know you and love you so well 

Every day. 
This is you as I feel your dear heart sink and 
swell, 
Grave or gay; 
With a kiss, — not too often, — just once in a 
while 
From your lips, 
And a soul, back of all, fresh and sweet, like 
the dew 
Morning sips. 

[20] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Burden 

THE warrior's mother wept in bitter pain, 
And moaned in woe, 
For word had come her eldest born was slain 

By brutal foe. 
Was nailed upon a tree and crucified 

In far-off land. 
Had died in anguish as the Saviour died, 
Pierced side and hand. 

The soul of her rose up at last in wrath. 

''I go," she cried, 
'*I take his sword, I tread his bloody path. 

Till those have died 
Who nailed my son upon that bitter tree; 

I go, today. 
Mother, Mary, lead me there with thee, 

Lead me, I pray." 

But Mary answered not. The mother called 

Still to her name, 
*'0h, dost thou, Mary, ask I stand appalled, 

[21] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

And bear my shame? 
I cannot rest here, knowing he is slain; 

Oh, lead thou me! 
If may be, let me bear the self-same pain 

Upon the tree." 

Then lo ! the room wherein the mother prayed 

Was filled with light, 
And to her eyes a sacred form displayed 

In mystic white. 
The hair was long and gold like dust of stars. 

The veins were blue 
Beneath the eyebrows' slender golden bars, 

The breath was dew. 

Upon the coral firmness of her lips. 

Her flesh was white. 
And rosy dawn was in her finger-tips ; 

Her eyes were night. 
For ah, within those sorrowing eyes was dark 

And wondrous woe. 
In them alone the pain had left its mark 

Of life below. 

And Mary Mother laid her slender palm 
Upon that head 

[22] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

That bowed before her to receive the balm 

Of words she said : 
*'Am I to lead thee where thy son is slain 

As mine was slain? 
Am I to lead thee to avenge the pain 

That was my pain? 

''I know as none can know what thou hast 
borne ; 
Weep on, poor heart, 
'Twill ease thy dreadful anguish, thus to mourn 

Ere I depart. 
But when I've gone then dry thine eyes, nor 
pray 
For me to lead 
Forth to thy vengeance, nor ask thou the way 
To fight and bleed. 

''He died for thee, that thou might live as I 

To pray to God, 
And save by prayer a world that strayed to die 

Beneath the rod. 
I did not ask to venge my Son the goad 

Nor ask to be 
Beside Him on the cross. His fallen load 

Enough for me." 

[23] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 



Longing 

I LIVE. The warm spring days slide slowly 
by, 

Life passes as the meadows pass a train ; 

I am alone. It is not new to me, 

I've been alone before. There is no pain 

In me for loneliness. Not in my heart, 

At least, but yesterday I felt an ache, 

Yet not an ache, — not so much agony, — 

A longing emptiness I cannot shake 

From me. I love you. You know that full well. 

But yet it is not love that hungers so. 

A day or two would matter none to love, 

And other lips are here to keep the flow 

Till yours return again. Light loves — you 

know 
How they are, — soothe a pain, — yet naught be- 
tide. 
It's something else in me that misses you. 
What is it? Is it soul? I can't decide. 



[24] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Watching 

I SOUGHT for you in the accustomed places, 
I looked for you in all the little places; 
Amid the books I watched and watched for 

you; 
I looked with longing at the passing faces, 
I sought your face among the passing faces, 
I watched at dusk when all the world was blue. 

I waited for your footstep in the twilight ; 

I listened for your footstep in the twilight; 

I lifted happy eyes when someone came; 

I gazed into the dusk with tear-dimmed eye- 
sight, 

I watched the darkening road with anxious eye- 
sight, 

I murmured low your dear, familiar name. 

I waited, hoped, — they told me you were com- 
ing,— 
How trustingly I waited for your coming! 
And then one day the postman at the door 

[25] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

Brought word of you. I opened it, still hum- 
ming, 

(How strange to think, now, I was ever hum- 
ming) 

And read, *'He will not come." 

I watch no more 



[26] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Poppy Petals 



THERE'S a Boy like a slumbrous poppy 
And his lips are a crimson red, 
And his eyes are brown like the curls that crown 
His delicate, princely head. 

There's a poppy in Argonne Forest, 
And its petals are strangely red 

Like a splash of blood in the Argonne mud 
O'er the place where the Boy lies dead. 



[27] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 



You're Very Too Much Like the One 
That I Loved 

YOU'RE Yevy too much like the one that 
I loved 
In stature, and bearing, and way. 
And a sigh hurts my throat when I see you so 

near, — 
A sigh for a long-buried day. 

There's a trick of your eye-lashes over your 
cheek, 

A mellow brown light in your eye, 
A queer little serious twitch of your mouth, 

A whispering song in your sigh, 

A little up-tilt of your chin — just the same, 
And the same planes of light on your brow, 

And a waxy, cream freshness of skin, cool and 
clean, 
Like jasmines fresh-picked from the bough. 

[28] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

There 's a difference slight in the touch of your 
hand, 

Your fingers are softer than his, 
And longer, — and oh! they've unbolted a door 

Where a too-saddened Memory is. 



[29] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 



Vie de T Ame 

''11 /f"Y cheeks are young and I am young 

iVI and laugh, 

My heart is old and old, and sits all day 
In ash and sackcloth, gnawing husks and chaff 
Clean-beat of grains, and sings a sorry lay, 
And hopes to find a poppy, strike a note. 
In husk, in dirge, to deaden it for aye." 

Oh, thus I sang, but 'tis not now that way. 
Your love has come to walk with me again ; 
'Tis you, the you I loved; I ask no more. 
I do not see you as I saw you then, — 
I love you better than I loved before. 

Need we those senses in this mystic world 
That number on the fingers of a hand? 
Lose we our All by bolts from Fortune hurled 
To fall by chance, on souls or in the sand? 



[30] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Nay, He who gave us souls were not so cruel 
To make those souls dependent on a sense, 
To tie immortal things by mortal rule; 
Souls yoked to cells? — then were no Passing 
Hence. 

And so it is you come to me at night 
And walk with me long ways beneath the stars. 
Nor do you fade when comes the silver light 
All spreading o'er the sky in virgin bars. 

I feel your kiss, your arms, your beating heart, 
I hear again the sob that caught and held 
The night I sang before we had to part, 
I see your breast that throbbed with pain and 
swelled. 

I know your eyes, my fingers touch your hair. 
Again I feel your hand around my own, — 
'Tis not a mockery ; 'tis true and fair ; 
You dwell with me ; I am no more alone. 

And in this land of love we have our joys. 
Our glorious souls, our life, our tall, fair son. 
Far better than unwelcome, unasked boys 
"Who might have come when jaded love was 
done. 

[31] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

**My cheeks are young and I am young and 

laugh ; 
My heart is old and old, and sits all day 
In ash and sackcloth, gnawing husks and chaff 
Clean-beat of grains, and sings a sorry lay, 
And hopes to find a poppy, strike a note. 
In husk, in dirge, to deaden it for aye." 

That song I sing no more. I see the way. 



[32] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Misunderstood 

MISUNDERSTOOD! And you lie there 
half dead, 
BelieviDg the falsest thing that e'er was said 
Of me, beloved, — that I was false to you; 
How could you believe it, knowing as you do 
How much I gave, how much I longed to give? 
I risked my life's one chance that you might 

live. 
Not love you? Find another love instead? 
You believed that ? Oh, your warm heart must 

have bled ! 

You believed a worse thing still than that, of 

me. 
I'm learning much with eyes too wet to see. 
You thought I left you for that wretched gold ! 
You thought the heart you held so dear was 

sold! 
How could you think these things? — and yet, I 

heard 
And believed almost as bitter-false a word 

[33] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

• 

Of you. I ask your dear forgiveness now, 
Before the death-dew settles on your brow. 

You're dying! Beloved, sink not so fast, 
Wait, wait, just for the sake of our dear past. 
For us there is no future, that I know; 
It is all checked by Death. God orders so. 
Why we can never see, nor shall we try ; 
It being so and fixed, why seek the why ? 
The present, then, is all for our sad souls ; 
A broken past; — and gloom that o'er us rolls. 

Misunderstood; Heav'n, that bitter word, 
Coined but for heartbreak, sorrow's stamp con- 
ferred 
Upon a heart, and seared deep in until 
The heart is burned and helpless, and lies still. 
It burned my own to death within my breast ; 
It's scarring yours that's waiting for its rest. 
Misunderstood ! Could I but take your hand 
And go with you and Death, — you'd under- 
stand. 



[34] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Dead 

KILLED? Dead? The words re-echo thru 
the gloom. 
The lips I kissed lie sod-bound in the tomb ; 
The arms that clasped me lie close on your 

breast 
Cramped in the coffin where is death, not rest; 
The stalwart shoulder where I laid my head 
Is smothered there in satin pillows — dead; 
Your cheek once warm and rough against my 

own 
Is green and grey and clinging o'er the bone. 

Killed? Dead? The very pulsing blood 
That once raced thru you in a swollen flood 
Is black and cold and thickened in the vein ; 
Your bones are dead, your flesh is dead, your 

brain ; 
But one thing lives in you and comes to me : 
I feel your live soul as it used to be. 
I feel its essence floating from the gloom 
On dead-white rose-leaves scattered in your 

tomb. 

[35] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 



Gone West 

GONE west ! 
Crushed out amid a gush of purple blood 
Lying, face downward, in the Flanders mud; 
Lad that I gathered violets with last spring, 
Undreaming what the summer months would 

bring. 
And take away. 

Gone west! 

Last March it was we watched Spring come 

and dreamed; 
Then came the Sixth of April, and it seemed 
That Spring, and love, and joy, and youth had 

gone 
And black, chaotic night obscured the dawn, — 
You went to war. 

Gone west! 

The splendid body I so oft admired 

Lies where it fell when some unknown one fired 

Who never knew the mark his bullet found, 

Nor saw the virile man it brought to ground, 

To die in France. 

[36] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Gone west? 

Ah, yes; your eyes are closed, your strong 

limbs rest, 
It's something else of you that has ''gone 

west, ' ' — 
Gone west from France until it nestles by 
The spot where I am; let your body lie. 
Your soul's gone west. 



[37] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN QUT 



Dead Love 

I WONDER if that hour will come to you 
When love, that love you have cried out 
against, is dead. 
I wonder, when you've fought the tempest 

through 
And it is past, and all the sunset's red. 
Then will you wish another morning 's dawning, 
And will you believe another day can come. 
Or will you rest, the burning love-sun scorn- 
ing. 
The heart forgetting, that lies cold and dead. 

I wonder if the thought will come to you 
That night and green-cheeked Death upon your 

heart 
Are better than the heat and scarlet hue. 
The fret and torment that are love 's main part. 
I wonder if you'll smile and see full clearly 
With eyes no fog can ever dim again. 
Or will you dream of power to love more dearly. 
And believe that there may still be loved men? 

[38] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

I wonder, will you fling aside tradition 
Which says that none of us can live alone, 
Acknowledge all the thoroughness of transition 
That comes when love is too well-slain to moan, 
Confess that none may ever make your heart 

beat 
The faster by a single second's length, 
Confess that ne'er again foi* you can lips meet 
In kiss where lust's forgot in love's pure 

strength ? 

Or will you love, I wonder, all unbelieving 
That dimpled Love could ever have a grave. 
And will your life's love keep you from per- 
ceiving 
That life can take away the gift youth gave ? 
And will the one flame in your untorn heart 

burn, 
Kept bright by loyalty, warm by home-life's 

fuel, 
Or will you, broken on the wheel's turn. 
See that dead love, alone, of all things is not 
cruel? 

[39] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

'Tis always thus I muse when I see lovers, 
Or those who have loved, or who may love, yet, 
Or those above whose heads a heartbreak 

hovers, 
Or those who lie, caught in a loveless net. 
I probe, sometimes, to find if hearts are living ; 
Perhaps I hurt; I do not know, nor care, 
Perhaps; true, all the thought I'm giving 
To life, is but to learn how live souls fare. 

I wonder if you'll wonder where my heart is, 

And wonder, is it quick or is it dead. 

And wonder, could it be my soul's best part is 

Buried, and my soul is in my head ; 

Or will you say it must be living, beating. 

Loving, knowing the love that's from above. 

Or else I could not write so fleeting, 

Unembittered an acceptance of Dead Love? 



[40] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Shrine 

AS I was passing on the walk one morn 
^ Not long ago, and pond 'ring God, I 
heard. 
Close to my side, the querying, low soft note, 
The gentle cooing of a peaceful bird. 

I turned and gazed across the blackened sward 
Which cleansing fire had swept the night be- 
fore; 
The fresh-burnt odor mingled with the mist 
Which spread the frost-touched, sparkling, 
sweet earth o'er. 

And there, before, I saw as fair a sight 
As ever greeted beauty-loving eyes. 
A flock of doves was feeding on the sward, 
And now and then a single bird would rise 

And circle, cooing softly to his mates, 
And move his snowy wings, and gently bless 
As one among a group of angels might 
Bestow a benediction, — ^half caress. 

[41] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 

And even as I watched it seemed to me 

That here was pure white beauty, — ^here was 

God; 
And lo ! my soul ceased pondering and knelt 
Before the snow-white doves and blackened 

sod. 



[42] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Love-Flowers 



ROB, Rob, was it so long ago we sinned? 
Our babe's a child; that love-flower's 
grown so wise 
I dare not see her, more. The sisters say 
She might remember some day, and surmise 
The reason for the bitter, longing love 
Deep in an unknown woman's hungry eyes. 
And so I kissed our Julie long today, 
(She asked me, softly, why I always cried) ; 
The sister in her sable veil and robe 
Saw my unhanded finger, knew, and sighed, 
And, as I turned to go, she murmured soft. 
Her beads clasped tight, ''Ah, Mother, mv 
child died." ' ^ 

I paused and looked into her lustrous eyes — 
Black pearls that gleamed beneath her sombre 
veil, — 

Then down at Julie's thick, gold-threaded hair 
^'Next time you kneel before your altar rail 
Thank God it did," I said. The sister bowed, 
''I do,"— but her calm, gentle face grew pale' 
[43] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 



"It Is To Laugh" 

THERE is nothing in life but laughter, — 
And that is a jest itself, — 
From the dreams of an amorous lover 

To a thief's ill-gotten pelf, 
For the one will be false and the other be brass 
And their owners the jests of the crowds that 
pass, — 
Broken dolls on the Toysmith's shelf. 



There is nothing in life but laughter, 

The laughter of Destiny's jeers. 
Ironic, sarcastic, and — mirthless. 

Scarce fitted for drying of tears. 
There is nothing more bitter than Fate's little 

quip. 
Deep scarrings are made by her coin's little 
flip. 
Her laughter awakens our fears. 



[44] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Yet, there's nothing in life but laughter, 

So why should we ever be sad ? 
And there's nothing in laughter but cruelty, 

So why should we ever be glad? 
Thus, life's sole relief is unfeeling existence, 
Yet a theory of paralyzed life lacks consis- 
tence — 

If Earth knew the truth 'twould go mad : 

That there's nothing in life but laughter, 
''Fate's irony's" more than a phrase. 

And the things that we think we have buried 
Appear again, leaving us dazed. 

The things called eternal are quickest to die, 

The men marked as liars are least apt to lie, — 
'' 'Tis to laugh" at the world's twisted ways. 



[45] 



MEPHISTOPHELES PUFFETH THE SUN OUT 



The Last Desire 

WHEN the body is dying, the heart is dead, 
And all that will ever be said is said. 
And all that will ever be done is done, 
And the tired eyes look at the setting sun 
In a parting token of last farewell, 
And the tired ears hark to the evening bell 
Once more, ere the funeral toll is rung, 
When the song of a life at last is sung. 
And the gloomy mourners begin to weep. 
And the white lids droop for the final sleep, 
'Tis then that the new-freed soul turns back 
And looks once more at the beaten track. 
And, before it speeds to the far Above, 
Knows its last desire — a mother's love. 



[46] 



